


there are stories about wolves and girls

by ohmcgee



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:17:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4982395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/pseuds/ohmcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She set Gotham on fire and when Bruce searched for her all he’d find was ashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there are stories about wolves and girls

She’s toying with him. 

First there were the books, three first editions with immaculate dust jackets, included among them _The Bell Jar_. Bruce still has the worn out, tattered paperback she used to read over and over hidden in a draw in his office. He used to take it out sometimes just to smell the old ink and dusty pages, remember her voice in his ear, _I am, I am, I am._

After that things became less sentimental. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason, no pattern to follow. She’s unpredictable, unstable, and Bruce can’t blame her, really, can’t imagine -- he wants to help her, wants to do _something_ , but she won’t let him get close enough before she’s flying off again, nothing but laughter and gunshots in the wind. 

The next plea for his attention is a duffel bag full of the heads of the major drug dealers in Gotham. Bruce gets sick when he sees them, not sympathy for the dead, just from knowing that Jay’s hands caused this. That the same small, delicate hands that once framed his face while he came down from some of Scarecrow’s fear toxin had done something so brutal, so _bloody_ \-- Bruce just couldn’t stomach it. 

It didn’t take him long to get over that, she made sure of it. She left bodies for him like a cat leaving a treat of dead birds on the welcome mat for it’s owner, only she wasn’t seeking approval, she was being cocky. See what I can do? She set Gotham on fire and when Bruce searched for her all he’d find was ashes. 

She was controlling the shots. It was up to her if she wanted to let Bruce find her, and she rarely did. She sent him presents just to keep him on his toes. Sometimes it was a copy of the Gotham Gazette, blaming Batman for the recent surge in violence, sometimes it was a box of Alfred’s favorite tea. Sometimes months went by without anything and the only way Bruce knew she was in Gotham was because of the trail of blood and bodies left like a signature wherever she went. 

He didn’t break down until six months after she came back to Gotham, didn’t realize what old building he’d landed on until he noticed the picnic blanket spread out on the roof, the white, styrofoam takeout box from the diner below his feet with two chili dogs inside next to a large chocolate shake. 

Bruce remembers it like it was yesterday, how she laughed when he told her he’d never had a chili dog before, how she’d surprised him at the end of the night with a picnic, how her lips had been cold and sweet when she kissed him. It was when he knew he loved her, completely and tragically, and he’d told her so when he pulled her into his lap and held onto her like she was an anchor keeping him from drifting. He’d never wanted to let her go.

Bruce shakes his head, trying to clear the memories away, and rips the post it note off the takeout box, crumples it up in his fist until the word written on it is no longer legible. 

_Liar._


End file.
